


Friends, Acquaintances, and Enemies

by hurricaneredd



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Dancing around feelings is what these two do best, Gen, M/M, One day I'll stop doing that..., There was supposed to be more to this but it started spiraling to another fic, Wilde's being Wilde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:23:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22920145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricaneredd/pseuds/hurricaneredd
Summary: Zolf learns about Wilde's qualifications when it comes to friends.
Relationships: Implied Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	Friends, Acquaintances, and Enemies

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly meant to save writing this until after my conference as a reward to myself for surviving, but I am nothing if not self-indulgent and full of bad decisions, especially when sleep deprived.

“—was a waste of time. We didn’t find anything useful.”

Howard Carter finishes giving his report to Wilde, and Zolf glares at the man from his position just behind and a little off to the side of Wilde. Two weeks and that’s all he has to give them? Bloody hell, he’s starting to doubt the man’s usefulness.

He’s not like Sasha at all, he thinks bitterly. Sasha would’ve—

He cuts the train of thought off before it can get any more traction, and if his eyes narrow ever so slightly as he continues to stare the man down, if his gaze turns a little harder and colder, well that’s just between him and Carter, innit?

He doesn’t quite catch whatever it is that Wilde says to the man, but by the smug chuckle and the shaking of his head as he turns to leave, he can only presume it was something clever, something that _did not_ make his stomach twist in an uncomfortably familiar way.

The door clicks softly, and Zolf can’t take it anymore. Agitation and frustration boils over, and he’s swiftly moving around the desk as fast as his new prosthetic legs let him, which, quite frankly, is much faster than he remembers.

“Still don’t know how you can be friends with him,” he grunts. “Man’s a bloody idiot.”

Wilde looks at Zolf with those familiar blue eyes, and he recognizes that look.

The bard’s eyes are far too sharp and clever, with a light that he’s not seen since before Paris. He watches with barely concealed curiosity as a dark brow’s quirked, the faintest hints of a smirk playing just at the edges of the bard's scarred lips.

“I’m offended.” Wilde’s words are too airy, too lofty to really hint at any offence being taken, and Zolf barely keeps from snorting and calling him out. “Do you _really_ think I’d be friends with someone like Howard Carter?”

Oh yeah, there’s definite amusement in his expression now. Zolf wants nothing more than to wipe that look off his face.

“I thought you knew me better than that by now.”

The truth is Zolf _does_ know him. Working so closely with him for these past several months, looking out for each other in a world where trusting the wrong person can be deadly, it’s forced the two of them to bond in ways he never expected. But that doesn’t mean he’s figured him out completely.

With all the stubbornness he can muster—a frankly terrifying amount, really—he sets his jaw and stares mockingly mirrors the other man’s quirked brow.

“Yeah and?”

“I do still have standards.”

The response baffles him. Of all the things he expected—

“Doubt it.”

Wilde simply waves his remark away, a dismissive flick of his wrist added for good measure. Without even needing any prodding, he answers the unasked question.

“I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good intellects.”

He says it so calmly and with a confidence and smugness that it’s almost like being back in the suite at Le Triomphe.

(It’s not until he sees the almost teasing arrogance that he realizes how much he misses it—how much he misses the days when all he had to worry about was threatening the bard with a good drowning and thinking up puns to say with Sasha.)

Clearing his throat, Zolf crosses his arms and shifts slightly to better stare him down.

“And what am I?”

There’s a shift in the air. Where before it was almost playful, it’s now charged with something he absolutely refuses to put a name to. And Oscar—Wilde—looks at him with eyes that are far too cunning and perceptive. He watches in morbid fascination at the way his lithe form shifts and moves, watches as sharp elbows are perched at the edges of the armrests. There’s something absolutely predatory about the entire thing, and he refuses to think about why his heart starts to thump against his chest or the way his pulse races.

“You, Mr. Smith, are all of the above and so much more.”


End file.
